Crowd Surf Off A Cliff (2/13)
Title: Crowd Surf Off A Cliff (2/13)
Pairing: Santana Lopez/Brittany, side Rachel Berry/Quinn Fabray
Rating: R/NC-17ish
Spoilers: AU
Disclaimer: Nothing owned, no profit gained.
Summary: Santana Lopez hates school, Lima, and those damn Cheerios--for the most part.
A/N: Title swiped from the Emily Haines & The Soft Skeleton song of the same name.
Three days go by without seeing New Hottie again (she really does have to figure out the chick’s name, if she’s going to play Fabray’s mindless little game; Santana’s kind of a traditionalist that way, when it comes to stalking beautiful women without their knowledge or consent). She tries not to think too much about it, reminding herself time and time again that she isn’t actually interested.
In the meantime, she’s pretty well distracted by Quinn’s side of the fence, which lately seems to be peppered even more with blathering about stupid little Rachel Berry than usual.
It’s been three days, and already Santana is mentally stocking up on duct tape.
“Fabray, shut up,” she groans, throwing back her head and staring mournfully into a never-ending blue sky. They’re sitting outside the school, Santana with the backs of her arms resting on a picnic table, Quinn cross-legged on the table’s top, soaking up the sunshine. It should be a place of peace and tranquility, but all Quinn can talk about is the skirt Rachel wore today and exactly how many inches of “perfect, God-verifying leg” blessed her field of vision. Santana wants to vomit.
“Like you didn’t notice,” Quinn scoffs, making it even worse because, for some reason, the blonde cannot fathom a world in which not everyone wants in Berry’s likely-grandmotherly panties. Santana reaches back, blindly, and smacks the girl’s calf with as much force as she can muster.
“I didn’t. Because, frankly, I would rather roll that girl in bubble wrap and ship her to Timbuktu in the world’s largest cardboard box than check out her stubby-ass legs.” That last part is not entirely accurate; Rachel actually does have freakishly attractive legs, but the moment Santana admits such a travesty out loud, she’s confident the ground will gnash open and swallow her whole. Best to stay safe and avoid that nonsense.
Luckily, Quinn is ignoring her, probably lost in daydreams of all kinds of perverse RuPaul-related activities. Santana doesn’t care so much, as long as she doesn’t have to listen to any of it; it affords her the chance to nudge her aviators up her nose and enjoy the sun toasting her skin.
Three days isn’t all that long, but it certainly has been enough time to remind Santana exactly why she dreams nightly of fleeing this town on a midnight-running transit. Between Sue Sylvester performing her hourly dinosaur stomp down the halls, Principal Figgins’ masterfully-pathetic bids for authority over the PA system, and that look Ms. Pillsbury gets every time she spots Santana-like she wants to save her soul and give her an acid bath at the same time to cleanse her of all possible traumas-Santana is already just about done.
She hates to admit it, but the only thing keeping her from faking the flu is the idea that Quinn might actually fling whatever potential shot at lesbo-joy with Berry she’s got out a window without the Latina around to stop the train wreck. It’s not that Santana believes Quinn is stupid-she just knows the girl gets a little too over-zealous sometimes.
Especially where Berry is concerned.
Santana sighs.
“So how’s your thing going?” Quinn asks, doing a pretty impressive job of feigning interest. If not for the way she’s reclining on her hands, head tilted back and eyes closed, Santana might actually think the other girl is up for a conversation.
“I have nothing to go,” Santana reminds her anyway, doubtful though she is of Quinn’s attention.
“Sure you do,” the girl responds absently, twisting her fingers through the blue mesh of the tabletop. “Whatshernuts. Cheery Blue Eyes. You talk to her yet?”
It’s a stupid question-which, knowing Quinn, only means it isn’t a question at all. Rather, it’s supposed to serve as a manipulatory reminder, letting Santana know that, despite having been left alone for a few days, she isn’t off the hook.
It annoys Santana exactly as much as it’s meant to.
“If I had talked to her,” she grumbles, “I wouldn’t be talking to your ass about it.”
This seems to get Quinn’s attention, at least. “Why not?” she demands, straightening up and shifting her own sunglasses down until hazel eyes are able to bore relentlessly into the side of Santana’s head. “I tell you everything about Rachel.”
“Yeah,” Santana deadpans, barely glancing over. “Everything. It’s fucking gross, Q. The day I start heaving glitter all over your shoes, feel free to smack me with a hammer.”
“Oh, I’m not that awful,” Quinn gripes back, thwapping Santana over the head.
“Trust me, Fabray, you are that awful and beyond.” Grinning, Santana nudges back into Quinn’s open hand. “You’ve practically been Pucking me lately.”
It’s exactly the worst comparison she could have made. Puck spends the majority of his time with them leering over every lewd and vile detail of his latest conquests, until both girls can do nothing more than subtly slip headphones into their ears and nod often. It’s not the only reason Santana beats on him, but she thinks it's a valid enough cause for the well-deserved swift kicks he recieves to the ass (and other locations) on a weekly basis.
Sometimes, she wonders why he even hangs out with them. Santana’s abusive and Quinn’s just a bitch; she knows the guy prides himself on having two “lesbros”, but really, even mohawked jackasses should have more self-respect than that.
At any rate, she can tell without looking that Quinn is insulted. Feeling more than a little proud of herself, she slouches down further and gazes carelessly across the quad.
Fifty feet away, doing a mad impression of an ant colony, Sylvester’s horde of cheer-bitches are running drills on the football field. From this far off, Santana can’t discern one uniform from another, which is by far the way she likes it. Unceasingly aggravated by her inability to touch even one member of the hive, she finds it’s easier to take them in as a singular entity. It makes her feel less hopeless, less like a failure, because when they band together into a giant Terminator of school spirit, she thinks no one could hope to take them down. Not even the most badass chick in Ohio. Not alone, anyway, and it’s not like she can depend upon Quinn and her puppy-love or Puck and his reality-retardant libido to help her out. They’re sort of badasses too-in a lame, apathetic kind of way-but they actually accept the status quo as it currently stands, shrugging it off and moving on the way Santana intellectually understands she should do, and that makes them completely useless.
So she prefers to look at it this way: even superheroes can’t destroy gods, and as sick as it might make her, the Cheerios construct McKinley’s entire pantheon. Sue Sylvester is their Zeus, thunderbolts and raging inability to jot down consequences and all. There is no defeating them, not until the moon turns purple and the earth begins to rotate steadily backwards.
Santana’s biding her time for that day. Pending that occurrence, she’ll have to settle for nuclear-caliber scowls and flipping the bird until premature arthritis sets in.
“Whatcha lookin’ at?” Quinn sing-songs, apparently already over the Puck comment. Santana rolls her eyes.
“Plotting Sylvester’s demise. What do you think would have a better chance, silver bullets or a bazooka?”
Quinn’s legs thunk down beside her seconds before the blonde slips off the table and onto the bench. “Bazooka, definitely. The woman made a deal with the devil; might not mean she’s indestructible. Bitty bits are still bitty bits, soul or no.”
“I respect your eloquence,” Santana replies soberly, smirking when Quinn’s shoulder rams into her own.
“But seriously,” the fairer girl presses after a moment. “You really haven’t talked to the hottie with the legs yet?”
“What is it with you and legs?” Santana demands. “I’d see somebody about that if I were you.”
“No, you’d just load up on thigh-and-calf porn,” Quinn says cheerfully. “Quit playing me off. What’s the deal?”
Exhaling noisily, Santana plucks the sunglasses off the other girl’s face and tosses them obnoxiously into the grass. “There is no deal. Just because you’ve got some fucked-up idea of a pact doesn’t mean I actually need your coping mechanisms. The girl’s got some junk in her trunk. Good for her. I still don’t know her name, and I still don’t care. I’m not you, Fabray. I don’t need some chick to validate my existence at this school.”
Quinn goes quiet for a moment, then asks in a strangely soft tone, “Then what do you need?”
Leaning back again, Santana shrugs. “An early diploma? Full ride out of Nowheresville, USA? A fucking break from the assholes and jerkoffs who constantly stare at me like I’m some kind of bisexual miscreant?”
“You are a bisexual miscreant,” Quinn reminds her, as only a best friend can. “Except mostly for the bisexual part. Having a crush on Alex Hoffman in the third grade doesn’t count, you know.”
Santana rolls her eyes. “Fine, I’m a miscreant. I’m just saying, it takes one to know one, bitch.”
“You’re the one who eggs the cars and swipes the janitor’s keys,” Quinn points out. “I just tag along to keep your Spanish ass out of jail. Don’t go sticking me with your delinquent brand, Lopez.”
Santana would smack her, she really, really would, except she is distracted at the last moment (literally; her hand is in the air, fingers spread for optimum aerodynamic what-the-fuck-ever, it’s not like Santana pays attention in Physics) by the shadow rolling slowly over them both. She looks away at the least opportune moment, just in time for Quinn to dodge the slap and wrap an arm around the darker girl’s throat. Santana squirms indignantly, equal parts displeased and stuck.
“No fair headlocking,” she complains, trying ineffectually to punch at Quinn. “Get off, you ass.”
Quinn, however, seems to have gone temporarily stupid. Her forearm remains rigid, clenched tight around Santana’s neck, but the rest of her is completely disengaged, distracted by the girl standing before them both with her hands on her hips.
“Why do you have Santana in a headlock?” Rachel Berry asks curiously, brown hair falling into dark eyes, and shit, Quinn has been petrified. Fucking great. Santana wriggles, lashing out with an elbow until she collides with Quinn’s kneecap.
“Because she’s a whore,” the Latina explains, wrenching free the second Quinn goes slack. Rachel’s nose wrinkles.
“She’s the president of the Celibacy Club,” she points out, as if it makes a difference. Santana knows all too well that Quinn’s only in that group because it’s a solid excuse not to play with boys. Clearly, Berry hasn’t gotten the memo.
“Still a whore,” Santana settles for grumbling. “Of the bitchtastic variety.”
Stupefied, Quinn says nothing. Rachel, naturally, takes it upon herself to berate Santana’s vernacular, stiffly mumbling something about disproportionate, hostile behavior doing damage to otherwise glowing relationships. Santana isn’t really listening; her mind is better occupied plotting ways to burn Berry’s unicorn-stamped sweatshirt.
She tunes back in only when Quinn manages to jerk free of her lust-induced stupor long enough to breathe, “Hi, Rachel.”
The tiny brunette arches an eyebrow, probably because she’s been standing there yapping for all of five minutes now and Quinn has only just acknowledged her presence.
“Hello, Quinn,” she replies pointedly. “Has your rough-housing cut off access to your manners?”
It’s such a Berry thing to say, overflowing with smug self-importance, and Santana kind of wants to jab the girl with a stick for it. Quinn, of course, grins.
“Have you ever put someone in a headlock before? It can be a very distracting kind of fun.”
Santana whips around to stare at the blonde, because, ew, way to make it sound dirtier than it was. Rachel smiles her obnoxious “I know everything” smile.
“I’m a pacifist, Quinn. I don’t do-“
“Fun?” Santana pipes up brightly, shutting up when Quinn’s hand discreetly connects with the back of her head. Rachel sniffs.
“Violence, Santana. Something you are all too appreciative of, I understand.”
Santana’s fingers clutch against her own jeans, torn between the temptation to smack down any bitch with the stones to challenge her and the understanding that Quinn will not tolerate her marring Berry’s massive nasal structure.
“So, Rachel!” Quinn cuts in, warningly yanking on a few stray locks of black hair when Santana leans ominously forward. “What keeps you around so long after school?”
It’s a question that would be better directed at the two of them, Santana thinks, since Berry is involved in just about every after-school activity in Figgins’ playbook (barring, of course, the athletics; Rachel Berry is a teacher’s pet and a hell of an overachiever, but Mia Hamm, she ain’t). It’s actually kind of dangerous; now that the inquiry is on the air, they’ll probably have to sit through a long-winded diatribe on the importance of the Equality For Inter-sexed German Students Club or some shit. Santana bites her tongue.
Shockingly, Rachel does little more than shrug and calmly say, “Glee practice. I meet with Mr. Schuester for one-on-one time once a week, so he can better assess which songs would suit my vocal stylings.”
Santana’s eyes widen. She can practically hear the rusty little gears pistoning away in Quinn’s head, and no, no, no, that is not okay. It isn’t that she has anything against music-Christ knows, she’s assembled a mental playlist for every occasion-but Gleeks fall even lower on the shoddily-carved McKinley totem pole than burnouts and psychopaths. Santana might not give a singular shit about her reputation, but even she isn’t disconnected enough for Will Schuester’s merry band of underdogs.
Her ability to telepathically control Quinn’s body seems to be short-circuiting today, however. No sooner than Santana realizes what is about to happen, the blonde girl’s mouth unhinges and out pours their damnation.
“Sounds like a lot of fun. Are you guys still looking for members?”
Sharp teeth click down again on a tender tongue. She’s going to start bleeding soon if she keeps this method up.
Rachel, for her part, lights up like a fucking beacon. “Yes! We need twelve members to compete, and we’re short a small handful. I don’t suppose you’d like to…”
She trails off, nudging the toe of one hideous flat into the grass hopefully, and Quinn practically leaps off the table in excitement.
“Absolutely. It’s just, like, singing and stuff, right? I can sing. Totally.”
Rachel looks like she’s ready to burst off this mortal coil and do laps around the stars. The force of Quinn’s smile might actually make her face explode.
Santana wants to kill them both.
“Santana’s got a pretty good voice too,” she hears Quinn add, and oh Jesus, now she’s really going to jail, because she’s pretty sure justifiable homicide does not extend to the murder of thy best friend in times of rep-crushing crisis.
“Nope,” the Latina says firmly. “Can’t carry a tune in the slightest. Sorry.”
Quinn’s glare threatens to dismember every inch of their friendship, starting with the spread of Santana’s secrets and culminating in a horrendously brutal mutilation of her body during fifth period gym class. Despite herself, Santana swallows hard.
“I mean…public vocalization isn’t really my vibe.”
“She’ll do it,” Quinn interrupts rudely, fingers clenching around the back of Santana’s neck as discreetly as possible. Rachel seems unconvinced.
“You sure?” she asks nervously, giant brown puppy eyes locked with a death grip on Santana’s. “I would hate to pressure you into something you’re uncomfortable with…”
“She’s sure,” Quinn replies firmly, smiling with every square inch of gleaming white tooth in her mouth. Santana would respond, if not for the misfortune of Quinn having found a pressure point beneath her skin and bearing down upon it. The most she can do is squeak in reply. Rachel seems to take this as an affirmative.
“Wonderful!” the little diva chirps happily, clapping her hands together and staring up at Quinn like the blonde is her own personal Jesus Christ: Superstar. Santana can’t decide if it would be more satisfying to puke first and kill later, or reverse.
Quinn waits until the object of her hideously-irrational affections has flounced away, having instructed them both to show up on Thursday at three-thirty. Finally, just as Santana is beginning to wonder if a person can be paralyzed from Vulcan Death Grip alone, the blonde’s hand unlatches and returns to its holster in Quinn’s pocket.
“Look, I know what you’re going to say-“
“Does it involve the words ‘no’, ‘fucking’, and ‘way’?” Santana asks sweetly, rubbing the tenderized skin under her hair. “Because, seriously, Romeo, this is just fucking unacceptable. You are whoring me out to nerds.”
“Okay, I get where you’re coming from,” Quinn shoots back helplessly, rushing to sit again beside her friend. “But you told me this was the year I had to go for it. I’m going for it. Music is Rachel’s life, and once she sees I’ve got some talent in that area, she’ll totally fall.” She pauses, worrying her lower lip with her teeth. “I’m only doing what you told me to.”
“I told you to get the girl,” Santana corrects. “Not drag my ass into it. In fact, I think I expressly mentioned the part about leaving me out of your shit. Didn’t I?”
“Yeah, okay, fair point.” Quinn looks desperate. It would almost be kind of heart-breaking, if not for Santana’s mind-numbing rage. “But come on, Lopez. I can’t do this alone. You know me, you know what I’ll be like if it’s just me and her. I’ll, like, lose my shit and start shaking, or forget all my guitar chords in the middle of a romantic ballad or something-“
Santana flings up a hand, disgusted. “Back up. Romantic ballad? Guitar? You won’t even play that fucking train wreck you call an instrument for me, you conniving bitch.”
Clearly anxious, Quinn wrings both hands under her chin. “Please. I swear, I’ll never ask you for another favor. Just do this for me.”
Santana sucks in a breath, wincing a little when her neck zings. “Dammit, I think you crushed something back there.” Quinn raises an apologetic eyebrow. Santana sighs. “Fuck it. Fine. But goddammit, Fabray, this is it. I’m not joining, like, Rainbow Streisand Lovers of America or anything. I don’t care how bad you want under that atrocious little skirt.”
For a second, she’s afraid Quinn is actually going to hug her; to be safe, she crosses her index fingers and holds them out to ward off potential fluffy evil. The blonde settles for beaming her face off.
They sit for a second, contemplating the rather sudden (and, Santana thinks, happiness-destroying) turn their lives have taken.
“Fuck, Q,” she says abruptly, nosing her sunglasses back into place and leaning into the sun once more. “Who in their right freakin' mind is going to be afraid of us now?”
Quinn throws back her head and roars with laughter.
[Part 3]
Pairing: Santana Lopez/Brittany, side Rachel Berry/Quinn Fabray
Rating: R/NC-17ish
Spoilers: AU
Disclaimer: Nothing owned, no profit gained.
Summary: Santana Lopez hates school, Lima, and those damn Cheerios--for the most part.
A/N: Title swiped from the Emily Haines & The Soft Skeleton song of the same name.
Three days go by without seeing New Hottie again (she really does have to figure out the chick’s name, if she’s going to play Fabray’s mindless little game; Santana’s kind of a traditionalist that way, when it comes to stalking beautiful women without their knowledge or consent). She tries not to think too much about it, reminding herself time and time again that she isn’t actually interested.
In the meantime, she’s pretty well distracted by Quinn’s side of the fence, which lately seems to be peppered even more with blathering about stupid little Rachel Berry than usual.
It’s been three days, and already Santana is mentally stocking up on duct tape.
“Fabray, shut up,” she groans, throwing back her head and staring mournfully into a never-ending blue sky. They’re sitting outside the school, Santana with the backs of her arms resting on a picnic table, Quinn cross-legged on the table’s top, soaking up the sunshine. It should be a place of peace and tranquility, but all Quinn can talk about is the skirt Rachel wore today and exactly how many inches of “perfect, God-verifying leg” blessed her field of vision. Santana wants to vomit.
“Like you didn’t notice,” Quinn scoffs, making it even worse because, for some reason, the blonde cannot fathom a world in which not everyone wants in Berry’s likely-grandmotherly panties. Santana reaches back, blindly, and smacks the girl’s calf with as much force as she can muster.
“I didn’t. Because, frankly, I would rather roll that girl in bubble wrap and ship her to Timbuktu in the world’s largest cardboard box than check out her stubby-ass legs.” That last part is not entirely accurate; Rachel actually does have freakishly attractive legs, but the moment Santana admits such a travesty out loud, she’s confident the ground will gnash open and swallow her whole. Best to stay safe and avoid that nonsense.
Luckily, Quinn is ignoring her, probably lost in daydreams of all kinds of perverse RuPaul-related activities. Santana doesn’t care so much, as long as she doesn’t have to listen to any of it; it affords her the chance to nudge her aviators up her nose and enjoy the sun toasting her skin.
Three days isn’t all that long, but it certainly has been enough time to remind Santana exactly why she dreams nightly of fleeing this town on a midnight-running transit. Between Sue Sylvester performing her hourly dinosaur stomp down the halls, Principal Figgins’ masterfully-pathetic bids for authority over the PA system, and that look Ms. Pillsbury gets every time she spots Santana-like she wants to save her soul and give her an acid bath at the same time to cleanse her of all possible traumas-Santana is already just about done.
She hates to admit it, but the only thing keeping her from faking the flu is the idea that Quinn might actually fling whatever potential shot at lesbo-joy with Berry she’s got out a window without the Latina around to stop the train wreck. It’s not that Santana believes Quinn is stupid-she just knows the girl gets a little too over-zealous sometimes.
Especially where Berry is concerned.
Santana sighs.
“So how’s your thing going?” Quinn asks, doing a pretty impressive job of feigning interest. If not for the way she’s reclining on her hands, head tilted back and eyes closed, Santana might actually think the other girl is up for a conversation.
“I have nothing to go,” Santana reminds her anyway, doubtful though she is of Quinn’s attention.
“Sure you do,” the girl responds absently, twisting her fingers through the blue mesh of the tabletop. “Whatshernuts. Cheery Blue Eyes. You talk to her yet?”
It’s a stupid question-which, knowing Quinn, only means it isn’t a question at all. Rather, it’s supposed to serve as a manipulatory reminder, letting Santana know that, despite having been left alone for a few days, she isn’t off the hook.
It annoys Santana exactly as much as it’s meant to.
“If I had talked to her,” she grumbles, “I wouldn’t be talking to your ass about it.”
This seems to get Quinn’s attention, at least. “Why not?” she demands, straightening up and shifting her own sunglasses down until hazel eyes are able to bore relentlessly into the side of Santana’s head. “I tell you everything about Rachel.”
“Yeah,” Santana deadpans, barely glancing over. “Everything. It’s fucking gross, Q. The day I start heaving glitter all over your shoes, feel free to smack me with a hammer.”
“Oh, I’m not that awful,” Quinn gripes back, thwapping Santana over the head.
“Trust me, Fabray, you are that awful and beyond.” Grinning, Santana nudges back into Quinn’s open hand. “You’ve practically been Pucking me lately.”
It’s exactly the worst comparison she could have made. Puck spends the majority of his time with them leering over every lewd and vile detail of his latest conquests, until both girls can do nothing more than subtly slip headphones into their ears and nod often. It’s not the only reason Santana beats on him, but she thinks it's a valid enough cause for the well-deserved swift kicks he recieves to the ass (and other locations) on a weekly basis.
Sometimes, she wonders why he even hangs out with them. Santana’s abusive and Quinn’s just a bitch; she knows the guy prides himself on having two “lesbros”, but really, even mohawked jackasses should have more self-respect than that.
At any rate, she can tell without looking that Quinn is insulted. Feeling more than a little proud of herself, she slouches down further and gazes carelessly across the quad.
Fifty feet away, doing a mad impression of an ant colony, Sylvester’s horde of cheer-bitches are running drills on the football field. From this far off, Santana can’t discern one uniform from another, which is by far the way she likes it. Unceasingly aggravated by her inability to touch even one member of the hive, she finds it’s easier to take them in as a singular entity. It makes her feel less hopeless, less like a failure, because when they band together into a giant Terminator of school spirit, she thinks no one could hope to take them down. Not even the most badass chick in Ohio. Not alone, anyway, and it’s not like she can depend upon Quinn and her puppy-love or Puck and his reality-retardant libido to help her out. They’re sort of badasses too-in a lame, apathetic kind of way-but they actually accept the status quo as it currently stands, shrugging it off and moving on the way Santana intellectually understands she should do, and that makes them completely useless.
So she prefers to look at it this way: even superheroes can’t destroy gods, and as sick as it might make her, the Cheerios construct McKinley’s entire pantheon. Sue Sylvester is their Zeus, thunderbolts and raging inability to jot down consequences and all. There is no defeating them, not until the moon turns purple and the earth begins to rotate steadily backwards.
Santana’s biding her time for that day. Pending that occurrence, she’ll have to settle for nuclear-caliber scowls and flipping the bird until premature arthritis sets in.
“Whatcha lookin’ at?” Quinn sing-songs, apparently already over the Puck comment. Santana rolls her eyes.
“Plotting Sylvester’s demise. What do you think would have a better chance, silver bullets or a bazooka?”
Quinn’s legs thunk down beside her seconds before the blonde slips off the table and onto the bench. “Bazooka, definitely. The woman made a deal with the devil; might not mean she’s indestructible. Bitty bits are still bitty bits, soul or no.”
“I respect your eloquence,” Santana replies soberly, smirking when Quinn’s shoulder rams into her own.
“But seriously,” the fairer girl presses after a moment. “You really haven’t talked to the hottie with the legs yet?”
“What is it with you and legs?” Santana demands. “I’d see somebody about that if I were you.”
“No, you’d just load up on thigh-and-calf porn,” Quinn says cheerfully. “Quit playing me off. What’s the deal?”
Exhaling noisily, Santana plucks the sunglasses off the other girl’s face and tosses them obnoxiously into the grass. “There is no deal. Just because you’ve got some fucked-up idea of a pact doesn’t mean I actually need your coping mechanisms. The girl’s got some junk in her trunk. Good for her. I still don’t know her name, and I still don’t care. I’m not you, Fabray. I don’t need some chick to validate my existence at this school.”
Quinn goes quiet for a moment, then asks in a strangely soft tone, “Then what do you need?”
Leaning back again, Santana shrugs. “An early diploma? Full ride out of Nowheresville, USA? A fucking break from the assholes and jerkoffs who constantly stare at me like I’m some kind of bisexual miscreant?”
“You are a bisexual miscreant,” Quinn reminds her, as only a best friend can. “Except mostly for the bisexual part. Having a crush on Alex Hoffman in the third grade doesn’t count, you know.”
Santana rolls her eyes. “Fine, I’m a miscreant. I’m just saying, it takes one to know one, bitch.”
“You’re the one who eggs the cars and swipes the janitor’s keys,” Quinn points out. “I just tag along to keep your Spanish ass out of jail. Don’t go sticking me with your delinquent brand, Lopez.”
Santana would smack her, she really, really would, except she is distracted at the last moment (literally; her hand is in the air, fingers spread for optimum aerodynamic what-the-fuck-ever, it’s not like Santana pays attention in Physics) by the shadow rolling slowly over them both. She looks away at the least opportune moment, just in time for Quinn to dodge the slap and wrap an arm around the darker girl’s throat. Santana squirms indignantly, equal parts displeased and stuck.
“No fair headlocking,” she complains, trying ineffectually to punch at Quinn. “Get off, you ass.”
Quinn, however, seems to have gone temporarily stupid. Her forearm remains rigid, clenched tight around Santana’s neck, but the rest of her is completely disengaged, distracted by the girl standing before them both with her hands on her hips.
“Why do you have Santana in a headlock?” Rachel Berry asks curiously, brown hair falling into dark eyes, and shit, Quinn has been petrified. Fucking great. Santana wriggles, lashing out with an elbow until she collides with Quinn’s kneecap.
“Because she’s a whore,” the Latina explains, wrenching free the second Quinn goes slack. Rachel’s nose wrinkles.
“She’s the president of the Celibacy Club,” she points out, as if it makes a difference. Santana knows all too well that Quinn’s only in that group because it’s a solid excuse not to play with boys. Clearly, Berry hasn’t gotten the memo.
“Still a whore,” Santana settles for grumbling. “Of the bitchtastic variety.”
Stupefied, Quinn says nothing. Rachel, naturally, takes it upon herself to berate Santana’s vernacular, stiffly mumbling something about disproportionate, hostile behavior doing damage to otherwise glowing relationships. Santana isn’t really listening; her mind is better occupied plotting ways to burn Berry’s unicorn-stamped sweatshirt.
She tunes back in only when Quinn manages to jerk free of her lust-induced stupor long enough to breathe, “Hi, Rachel.”
The tiny brunette arches an eyebrow, probably because she’s been standing there yapping for all of five minutes now and Quinn has only just acknowledged her presence.
“Hello, Quinn,” she replies pointedly. “Has your rough-housing cut off access to your manners?”
It’s such a Berry thing to say, overflowing with smug self-importance, and Santana kind of wants to jab the girl with a stick for it. Quinn, of course, grins.
“Have you ever put someone in a headlock before? It can be a very distracting kind of fun.”
Santana whips around to stare at the blonde, because, ew, way to make it sound dirtier than it was. Rachel smiles her obnoxious “I know everything” smile.
“I’m a pacifist, Quinn. I don’t do-“
“Fun?” Santana pipes up brightly, shutting up when Quinn’s hand discreetly connects with the back of her head. Rachel sniffs.
“Violence, Santana. Something you are all too appreciative of, I understand.”
Santana’s fingers clutch against her own jeans, torn between the temptation to smack down any bitch with the stones to challenge her and the understanding that Quinn will not tolerate her marring Berry’s massive nasal structure.
“So, Rachel!” Quinn cuts in, warningly yanking on a few stray locks of black hair when Santana leans ominously forward. “What keeps you around so long after school?”
It’s a question that would be better directed at the two of them, Santana thinks, since Berry is involved in just about every after-school activity in Figgins’ playbook (barring, of course, the athletics; Rachel Berry is a teacher’s pet and a hell of an overachiever, but Mia Hamm, she ain’t). It’s actually kind of dangerous; now that the inquiry is on the air, they’ll probably have to sit through a long-winded diatribe on the importance of the Equality For Inter-sexed German Students Club or some shit. Santana bites her tongue.
Shockingly, Rachel does little more than shrug and calmly say, “Glee practice. I meet with Mr. Schuester for one-on-one time once a week, so he can better assess which songs would suit my vocal stylings.”
Santana’s eyes widen. She can practically hear the rusty little gears pistoning away in Quinn’s head, and no, no, no, that is not okay. It isn’t that she has anything against music-Christ knows, she’s assembled a mental playlist for every occasion-but Gleeks fall even lower on the shoddily-carved McKinley totem pole than burnouts and psychopaths. Santana might not give a singular shit about her reputation, but even she isn’t disconnected enough for Will Schuester’s merry band of underdogs.
Her ability to telepathically control Quinn’s body seems to be short-circuiting today, however. No sooner than Santana realizes what is about to happen, the blonde girl’s mouth unhinges and out pours their damnation.
“Sounds like a lot of fun. Are you guys still looking for members?”
Sharp teeth click down again on a tender tongue. She’s going to start bleeding soon if she keeps this method up.
Rachel, for her part, lights up like a fucking beacon. “Yes! We need twelve members to compete, and we’re short a small handful. I don’t suppose you’d like to…”
She trails off, nudging the toe of one hideous flat into the grass hopefully, and Quinn practically leaps off the table in excitement.
“Absolutely. It’s just, like, singing and stuff, right? I can sing. Totally.”
Rachel looks like she’s ready to burst off this mortal coil and do laps around the stars. The force of Quinn’s smile might actually make her face explode.
Santana wants to kill them both.
“Santana’s got a pretty good voice too,” she hears Quinn add, and oh Jesus, now she’s really going to jail, because she’s pretty sure justifiable homicide does not extend to the murder of thy best friend in times of rep-crushing crisis.
“Nope,” the Latina says firmly. “Can’t carry a tune in the slightest. Sorry.”
Quinn’s glare threatens to dismember every inch of their friendship, starting with the spread of Santana’s secrets and culminating in a horrendously brutal mutilation of her body during fifth period gym class. Despite herself, Santana swallows hard.
“I mean…public vocalization isn’t really my vibe.”
“She’ll do it,” Quinn interrupts rudely, fingers clenching around the back of Santana’s neck as discreetly as possible. Rachel seems unconvinced.
“You sure?” she asks nervously, giant brown puppy eyes locked with a death grip on Santana’s. “I would hate to pressure you into something you’re uncomfortable with…”
“She’s sure,” Quinn replies firmly, smiling with every square inch of gleaming white tooth in her mouth. Santana would respond, if not for the misfortune of Quinn having found a pressure point beneath her skin and bearing down upon it. The most she can do is squeak in reply. Rachel seems to take this as an affirmative.
“Wonderful!” the little diva chirps happily, clapping her hands together and staring up at Quinn like the blonde is her own personal Jesus Christ: Superstar. Santana can’t decide if it would be more satisfying to puke first and kill later, or reverse.
Quinn waits until the object of her hideously-irrational affections has flounced away, having instructed them both to show up on Thursday at three-thirty. Finally, just as Santana is beginning to wonder if a person can be paralyzed from Vulcan Death Grip alone, the blonde’s hand unlatches and returns to its holster in Quinn’s pocket.
“Look, I know what you’re going to say-“
“Does it involve the words ‘no’, ‘fucking’, and ‘way’?” Santana asks sweetly, rubbing the tenderized skin under her hair. “Because, seriously, Romeo, this is just fucking unacceptable. You are whoring me out to nerds.”
“Okay, I get where you’re coming from,” Quinn shoots back helplessly, rushing to sit again beside her friend. “But you told me this was the year I had to go for it. I’m going for it. Music is Rachel’s life, and once she sees I’ve got some talent in that area, she’ll totally fall.” She pauses, worrying her lower lip with her teeth. “I’m only doing what you told me to.”
“I told you to get the girl,” Santana corrects. “Not drag my ass into it. In fact, I think I expressly mentioned the part about leaving me out of your shit. Didn’t I?”
“Yeah, okay, fair point.” Quinn looks desperate. It would almost be kind of heart-breaking, if not for Santana’s mind-numbing rage. “But come on, Lopez. I can’t do this alone. You know me, you know what I’ll be like if it’s just me and her. I’ll, like, lose my shit and start shaking, or forget all my guitar chords in the middle of a romantic ballad or something-“
Santana flings up a hand, disgusted. “Back up. Romantic ballad? Guitar? You won’t even play that fucking train wreck you call an instrument for me, you conniving bitch.”
Clearly anxious, Quinn wrings both hands under her chin. “Please. I swear, I’ll never ask you for another favor. Just do this for me.”
Santana sucks in a breath, wincing a little when her neck zings. “Dammit, I think you crushed something back there.” Quinn raises an apologetic eyebrow. Santana sighs. “Fuck it. Fine. But goddammit, Fabray, this is it. I’m not joining, like, Rainbow Streisand Lovers of America or anything. I don’t care how bad you want under that atrocious little skirt.”
For a second, she’s afraid Quinn is actually going to hug her; to be safe, she crosses her index fingers and holds them out to ward off potential fluffy evil. The blonde settles for beaming her face off.
They sit for a second, contemplating the rather sudden (and, Santana thinks, happiness-destroying) turn their lives have taken.
“Fuck, Q,” she says abruptly, nosing her sunglasses back into place and leaning into the sun once more. “Who in their right freakin' mind is going to be afraid of us now?”
Quinn throws back her head and roars with laughter.
[Part 3]